Diane Legendre
ABOUT SKYE WRITING
Skye Writing is not only about providing exceptional freelance services. It’s also about my desire to share a glimpse of my story writing. I write with the hope that someone will feel what I am conveying through words. My writing covers an array of genres - short-stories, fairytales and novels. Here, I’d like to share a few excerpts with you.
Diane Caron Legendre
WWW.SKYE-WRITING.COM
The Mystical Music Man
“...Within his pocket lay a whistle fashioned from desert sands whose lilting pitch was like no other. As he strode along the lane, he pulled it out and stopped, peering at its design. He remembered the water sprite from the fairy shop where the enchanted whistle had beckoned for his touch. Picking it up from the wooden bench, he had blown his magic breath into it and such a sound had never touched his ears. As quickly as his fingers had held it, it slipped from them and dropped upon the bench. Sweet laughter resounded from the gentle, smiling creature just before him. He could have reached out and touched her but held back...”
The Star-Crossed Faerie Ring
“...Pinkpea, the fairy, fluttered about the forest flowers looking for a perfect petal upon which to sun herself. As the sun shone down, she was blinded by a light so striking that she grabbed onto the nearest leaf and caught her breath. “What was that?” she sputtered. Looking down, she saw a shining object resting on the grass below. Quickly, she flew down to see what was causing such bright flashes of light. The sun’s rays were reflected in a band of gold with twinkling stars circling round a clear blue stone. Pinkpea climbed over the top edge and dropped into the inner circle. She peered through the stone and everything looked blue... blue grass and blue flowers and blue bugs...”
Clams in Cups
“...The menu read “Clams in Cups.... $2.50”. I was instantly taken back to a strange time in my life. Strange, yet comforting. For some reason, I felt safe there and nowhere else. The camp, with its porch and all the windows. The rope net that hung against the wall. The air that smelled of sea, if only a pond. The water-ragged Irish Setter biting into the dead hornpouts on the shore and shaking them until their gills waved at us like hands. Behind him, the giant St. Bernard followed with sagging eyes, his mouth hanging in silence. But, what I most remembered were the clams in cups...”
